* * *
He had her by the arm and was pinching hard, just like Hayley liked to do to him.
“Gimme it, ‘Soon! I’m warning you!”
Generally it worked for Hayley, but ‘Soon was not giving in; and that was even before little Robert pushed his insignificant self between them.
“Leave her alo’d, Beau!” He was like a plugged up squeaky toy on steroids. “She’s dot givi’g it to you!”
“Push off, Rupert. Or I’ll toss you over the fence like a cricket ball!”
And then, inexplicably, there was Cookie - still snivelling, but nonetheless daring to have a say.
“He’s not Rupert! He’s Robert! And if you toss him, you gotta toss all of us!”
“No problem, Biscuit! Maybe I’ll start with you!”
The major problem with such threats, of course, is that backing down from them is the only real alternative to following through. And following through isn’t always practical.
“Shoot hib ‘Sood!” Robert suddenly demanded. “Shoot a big hole id his stupid head! See how he likes that!”
It set Beau back on his heels to hear his own threats coming back at him, especially from so incredible a source. “Shut up, Robot! Nobody’s getting shot. ‘Specially not me. ‘Specially not by her. She hasn’t got the guts, anymore’n you have!” He said it, but then he remembered, when he’d offered the four of them a shot from his pellet rifle, only in her eyes was there an eager willingness.
“For sub’wud as bead as you,” said Robert softly, “I got the guts! Give be the gud, ‘Sood, a’d I’ll shoot hib!”
Most of the exchange passed at a very low, very fast level of hissing intensity, but something in Robert’s last declaration, something in its dry slow head-up certainty, made Beau the Bum’s bum clench with astonishment. It was a bum that seldom clenched for any reason; but something, it told his head, had changed. Some level of care was in order. He let go of Afsoon and began, as bullies are wont to do when unexpectedly challenged, to mollify.
“Don’t get your panties in a knot, Ribbit. I only wanted it for back-up anyways. Case I need it when I go get Less’s mutt back from the Duke! Hey! Why don’t youse come with me? You can hang onto the gun then an’ maybe get a chance to shoot him! I’m the boss, though. Youse have to do what I say or it won’t work! Come on, we’ll jig around in Hayl’s Ute! Whaddya reckon?”
“You can’t drive!” said Cookie. “You’re too young! You haven’t got a licence!”
“Mate, I drove around this neighbourhood about a hundred times before - maybe a thousand times! I’ll keep her slow for yez. First gear. We c’n all crowd in. C’mon. We’ll jus’ go have a look. What’re yez, chicken?”
The silence was like another presence, fidgeting amongst them. “Pah -thetic!” Beau sneered. “It’s two minutes! Ye wouldn’t do that to help a mate get his dog back?”
The silence fidgeted on.
“Right!” he finally declared. “I’ll do it on me own then. All I can say is, I hope he knows whatta buncha useless squirrels his mates are. Wouldn’ have yez for mine if ye paid me!”
“We’ll cub.” It was Robert, taking it on himself to decide for all. “But dot with the gud. You have to leave the gud behide.”
It was never a choice Cookie would have made but, despite his whimpering fear of what the parents would say, he couldn’t let Robert go alone. ‘Soon, on the other hand, though she desperately wanted to be part of Ava’s rescue squad, could not be deterred from going to Neville. And so, while the Ute edged into the street with a low rumble, no headlights and three sets of eyes staring over the high dashboard, ‘Soon edged hesitantly into the bottlebrush.
Only a few steps and then she stopped. Very nearly, for good. It was the memory of that eerie cry and flash. She’d walked the neighbourhood often before in the darkness but never had she heard such a piteous sound. Ancient tales of her culture told of the Al - the demon with long nails and teeth and feet turned backwards; the one who haunted the nights and fed on the dead. Perhaps it too had been on the boat! It was a long while - a painfully long while, before she stepped fully into Home Country, driving herself on with the thought she’d once used to drive Neville: the only way it will be like you lived is if you do desperate things. And anyway, in her hands she had a pistol. One hand on the barrel, the other on the grip.
Neville the Less Page 52